


Grace in Memory

by SunlitStone



Category: Chalion Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: F/M, Family, Introspection, shipfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 03:40:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13045731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunlitStone/pseuds/SunlitStone
Summary: When Bergon and Betriz are trapped by a cave-in, they must talk with each other to pass the time and to keep awake. Meanwhile, Iselle and Cazaril, stuck on the other side of the rocks, must wait while their loved ones are rescued, and have little to do to while they wait but talk, themselves.





	Grace in Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wiltedartist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wiltedartist/gifts).



> I did my best to include introspection, romance, and introspection about the romance. I hope you enjoy! :)

**Inside**

The cavern around Betriz was almost entirely dark, the floor cold even through the shawl wrapped around her palms. By now her knees were thoroughly sore, and the pain in her head and left ankle throbbed against each other in unpleasant counterpoint. But Bergon had been running in this direction when the entrance caved in, and— 

There was something fleshy under her right palm. She poked carefully. Bergon’s knee, she judged, and swallowed. It was hard to judge how long it had been since she’d woken, but she thought it couldn’t have been much shorter than ten minutes, and Bergon hadn’t responded to any of her calls, nor woken up as she’d crawled across the ground to find him. He wasn’t moving now, either. But surely the Goddess would not be so cruel as to take Bergon from them now, but a few months after he’d come to Chalion and to Iselle, not after everything She had gone through to bring him here. 

And he was still warm. Betriz crawled carefully towards his head, stopping every now and then to poke at him gently until she found his hair underneath her fingers. Bergon had collapsed on his side, it seemed, and his face was turned away from her; she reached around him carefully and held her hand in front of his nose and mouth. 

They were soft but unmistakable, his brief exhales batting gently against her outstretched fingers. 

She felt herself sag with relief. Bergon was alive, thank the Five Gods. She’d dedicate something to the temples once she got back to Zerica castle, and something especially nice for the Daughter. 

But she was hardly done yet. She knelt carefully upright, wincing as her ankle came into contact with the floor. “Bergon?” She began to poke his face as she called his name. “Bergon, my lord, wake up!” 

It didn’t take long. Before a minute had passed, Bergon was moving of his own accord, his head turning against her hand. She snatched her fingers back. 

“Betriz?” He sounded uncertain. “What’s going on?” 

“You mustn’t move,” she said quickly. “I’m not sure how you’ve been injured—” 

“Injured?” He blew out a breath of air, but lay still. “Betriz, what is going on?” 

She bit her lip. “Don’t you remember?” 

“I don’t think so. The last thing I remember is talking with Iselle at Zerica, getting ready to head to the caves, and then this. Is she all right? Were we attacked?” 

He wasn’t sounding panicked, at least. “Iselle’s fine,” Betriz said quickly. “Caz got her out of the way.” _I think._ No, surely he’d moved quickly enough, they’d been almost under the entrance already…. And now was not the time to burden the roya-consort with her uncertainty. “But we weren’t attacked. Or at least I don’t think so. The roof of the cavern caved in. I got hit by a rock—” still covered with her blood, back wherever she’d started her search, though thankfully the bleeding had stopped by the time she’d woken “—it knocked me out. I think you must have been too. Does anywhere else hurt, besides your head?” 

Bergon considered this. “I don’t remember any of this. Bastard’s demons. —I’m fine, I think, only stiff and bruised. But you, are you all right?” 

“I think I twisted my ankle falling.” 

He hissed. “Not broken?” 

“I don’t think so. I managed to get over here, anyhow.” 

“All right. I’m going to try to sit up now. Be careful.” 

She couldn’t see much, but she could at least see movement. She watched carefully as Bergon manoeuvred himself into sitting upright, but he made the transition without any trouble. 

“All right,” he said finally. “Will you let me see your ankle?” 

Betriz hesitated. “In this light?” 

“My fingers are my eyes,” said Bergon. “I saw plenty of injuries like this when I campaigned with my mother. I’d rather know, if you’re hurt.” 

“Yes, all right.” She moved carefully to a sitting position, wrapping her hands together in her shawl while she was at it, and extended her ankle towards his lap. 

He prodded carefully at it for a few minutes, then proclaimed that it was probably fine. “It needs rest, I think, nothing more.” 

“How fortunate, then, that I have nowhere else to go.” 

He laughed. “A very miracle.” 

She sighed wistfully. “If only. Though I suppose those can come out badly enough, themselves.” She thought about Caz’ death-magic tumour. She couldn’t help but wish that he and not Bergon were trapped in here, if anyone had to be. Though she supposed if she were wishing she might as well wish that nothing at all had happened, and they were starting back to Zerica, with a lunch to look forward to at the end of the ride… 

“That’s so,” agreed Bergon. He sighed too. 

They sat together in silence. 

Now that conversation had ceased, her injuries drew her attention back to themselves, drumming the pain repeatedly back into her awareness. Her head was the worst: her ankle at least had the solace of the cool floor, but for her head there was nothing. The pain there pulsed in a constant rhythm. Surely it could find something else to do, she thought in some irritation. 

She reached up to touch the edge of her wound, flinched back from it. _Ow_. At least she had interrupted the rhythm. 

“Is there anything that can be done for head injuries?” 

Silence. 

“Bergon? _Bergon!_ ” She reached over and poked him. 

“Betriz!” He blew out his breath. “My apologies, lady, I’m afraid I was…not quite here. Is there something you need?” 

“Is there anything that can be done for head wounds?” 

“Oh. Ah,” he said. “Yes, I hadn’t…we mustn’t fall asleep. I’ve seen people die like that—ah, never mind. But we must keep awake.” 

“Oh.” She thought of the dark room around her, and the cold. She was already tired. _I would give anything to be in bed with Caz, right now._

“Yes.” 

There was a pause. 

“I suppose we should keep talking then,” she said dubiously. “Something we can both stay awake for. I don’t really think I’m up for taxation policies again.” 

“Five gods no,” said Bergon. “No, I know—Betriz, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve always been curious—would you tell me about meeting Caz?” 

**Outside**

Iselle did not even turn to face him as he approached. A bad sign, Cazaril judged; Bergon in danger was bad enough, Betriz worse by far, but if they did not emerge from the cave he might lose more than the two of them. _I am not strong enough to bear such wounds. Goddess, preserve me._ That was the advantage of being the elder: he had always meant to die _first._

“Royina,” he said as he reached her. 

Finally she turned towards him. Her face was almost totally blank, absent of any emotion, yet he thought he could read the tension that lurked behind her still expression. 

“Cazaril,” she said. Her voice was cold and cool. “How much longer?” 

“An hour, the foreman says. Perhaps two.” 

There: motion, at last, behind her eyes. “You’re going to tell me I can’t stay here.” 

He sighed. “My lady. That you can I have no doubt. That does not mean it is wise.” 

Now the break came, pain flooding across her face as she slumped slightly forward. His own pain responded, and he wanted momentarily to fall to his knees and howl. Not all miseries were god-inflicted, he knew. Some were purely accidental. 

But he could not afford a breakdown yet. And not, truly, in front of Iselle. 

“Cazaril,” she said in an undertone, “I cannot think of such things now. Tell me.” 

“As you wish, my lady. First—we are disturbing the workers. They have done this before, many times, and I am sure they will succeed now, but the royal pressure is…” he grimaced “…unhelpful. And second—” he paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “I am sure Betriz and the roya-consort are well. They were well back from the stones. But even so, such an adventure will be tiring, draining. When they come out—” 

“They will need our support,” finished Iselle. “So we must be rested, to be able to provide it.” 

“I have already sent for physicians, to see to them when they emerge. What we can do here has been done.” 

She sighed her exhaustion. “Very well, Cazaril. Let us go. I don’t want to be far—” 

He found himself tempted to argue that he should stay. But in truth his arguments applied to himself as well as Iselle, and he did not want to contemplate leaving Iselle alone with her pain. _Betriz, Bergon, we will not be far._ “Around the bend in the path?” he suggested. “There was a clearing, we should be able to set up there.” 

She nodded. “See to it, Cazaril.” 

“My lady.” He nodded to her, and returned to Iselle’s guards to make the arrangements. 

**Inside**

_Tell me about meeting Caz._

Betriz understood Bergon’s curiosity. He loved Caz, as surely as she herself or Iselle, and she had been with him more than anyone else since he had sacrificed himself to save Bergon, and vanished from Bergon’s sight. 

_And surely I could talk about Caz all day long._

She felt herself smiling. 

“The first time I met him,” she admitted, “was not quite the first time he saw me. I didn’t realize, for the longest time… Iselle and I were racing—we were racing Teidez—” she spared a moment’s wordless prayer, for her friend and lady’s brother, a boy caught up in events well past his understanding “—we all came into the courtyard. And there he was, wearing his merchant’s robes, and neither of us noticed him!” It seemed inconceivable to her now, that Caz would not be the first thing she noticed when she entered a room. “But he saw us. He told me, later.” 

Bergon puffed out a laugh. “He’s very effective, I think, at disguising himself thus. The first time I saw him, I took him for a madman. Later… I learned I was right after all, in a way I never thought could be so wondrous.” 

“Cazaril talks, sometimes, about men’s souls,” Betriz agreed. “He says that we are all beautiful to the gods. But I think some souls are beautiful to our eyes also, if we can learn to see them.” 

She thought Bergon smiled. “So how did you learn to see Caz?” 

“I’m not sure I’ll ever finish.”Surely that was what love was, to spend a lifetime learning someone’s beauty. “He did make a good impression, the first time we really met. We were all at dinner, Iselle and Teidez and the Provincara and Papa and Cazaril and dy Sanda—Teidez’ tutor, I mean—and I. He said, what was it, that soldiers killed your enemies, duelists your allies, so a commander should prefer the first and not the second. He was arguing with Teidez, but it all seemed curiously practical. As if the business of war was like choosing which threads one should use for your embroidery, or arranging the servants.” 

“This pleased you?” 

“Oh, his other conversation was quite charming too. And he was something new, which was rare enough in Valenda.” She shrugged. “And men are so often interested in trying to make war this glorious mystery, entirely removed from everyday affairs, it was curious to see one who did the opposite. And he was polite and clever, and we thought he might be of some help, with Teidez, who was…very much a boy, still. So we liked him.” Quite a bit, in her own case. “But I think…the first time he really seemed like something _different_ was Iselle’s first lesson with him.” 

“He never told me how he came to be teaching Iselle,” prompted Bergon. 

“At the time we thought it was just for Iselle’s dignity,” she said. “Now…” she closed her eyes, trying to cast herself back to those peaceful days in Valenda. She had learned much since then. But she was hardly the first person to grow older and wiser. “Now I think the Provincara was trying to give Iselle someone she could rely on, a shield and a weapon all at once. More than that, because he taught us how to do the same ourselves. A sword cannot teach you how to fight. I’ll never forget,” she added, opening her eyes, “when he told Iselle that she shouldn’t have made an enemy and then left him alive. ‘Good charity,’ he said. ‘Bad tactics.’” 

This startled a laugh from Bergon. “You make him sound like my father! But when was this?” 

“Oh, did Iselle not tell you? It was our first lesson with him. We’d just had the Daughter’s Day celebration—” perhaps that, in retrospect, had been the incident that had prodded the Provincara to assign Caz to Iselle “—and there was this corrupt judge we’d learned of. The—” her lips twisted up “—Dishonorable Vrese. He’d taken a bribe from this famous duelist to let him go free after he’d murdered a man, pretending it was a proper duel. That was how duelists came up,” she added, “at dinner. 

“So Iselle was to be the Daughter’s avatar, and we’d heard what had happened, and we knew Vrese would be there to give his gift to the temple. So we thought that there must be something that Iselle could do, being an avatar of the Goddess on her most holy day!” _Turn my privilege into action,_ Iselle had said. “We thought everywhere was like the Provincara’s household, I think, and as courteous and well-ordered. Iselle was to be the Daughter’s handmaiden, tidying up Her affairs. So when Vrese came with his gift, she refused it.” 

“She— _refused_ it?” Bergon sounded torn between surprise and profound amusement. 

“Oh, yes.” Betriz felt herself smiling again, rueful. “She told him, what was it? That the Daughter accepted gifts from the heart, not bribes.” 

She felt Bergon shake with laughter for a few seconds beside her. “My wife is a terrifying lady. I can just see it. What did he do then?” 

“Left, of course. He didn’t have much of a choice, after that! But it was after that that the Provincara appointed Caz as Iselle’s secretary and tutor. And in our first lesson, he told Iselle that it was a remarkable thing she’d done, to accuse a man of corruption when he was constrained not to answer her back. And he asked what evidence we had of the judge’s corruption, because Papa had only said he heard it, not that he knew it to be true. He said—that he didn’t know if what we’d done was good and just, or terrible and cruel, but that the real problem was that we didn’t either.” 

“Oh.” Bergon fell silent for a moment beside her. “Was he corrupt, then?” 

“A little after that he fled with all his money in the middle of the night, which seemed evidence enough. I think he must have been. But you see—everyone else had told us we ought to have stayed silent. Caz didn’t chide us for acting, but only for acting so thoughtlessly.” 

“I do see,” said Bergon, sounding thoughtful himself. “Yes.” 

“That was the same lesson he insulted Iselle’s accent in—oh, I can’t remember anymore, Darthacan or Roknari. And you know how she gets. But he told her that cages could be made of feather beds just as well as iron bars. It felt like the first time anyone had cared that she was really learning. Because he thought she could do something with it, because he just took his duties seriously—” she fell silent for a moment. “He treated us,” she said finally, “not like equals, exactly. I mean, he was Iselle’s tutor, and of course Iselle was a royesse even if she wasn’t heir. Yet—it was as though we were people, or adults, maybe, not just children. When he argued he tried to convince us to his point of view, not just to do as we were told. No one had acted—as if we were rational, before. As if our convictions counted for something.” 

**Outside**

The silence had gone on for long enough that the birds’ call overhead shocked Cazaril. He looked up to watch the flock fly by; out of the corner of his eye, he caught Iselle looking up too, pain momentarily put aside as the late-morning sun caught on the birds’ wings. _Good._ But the moment would be gone all too soon, and then she would return to her cold and terrible quiet. 

He searched, desperately, for something to say, something that would not remind her of of Betriz or Bergon; which ruled out neatly, he reflected, the entire time he’d known her. _And a few months more, aye._ Not that his own brain was filled with anything but thoughts of Betriz, alone in that terrible darkness… _Choose something else, Chancellor._ And not anything that would fail to catch her interest, and leave him glubbing about like a fish on land. _Or a man underwater._ “Did I ever tell you,” he said suddenly, “how I became friends with Palli?” 

She blinked and looked over at him; he could almost see her attention returning to the present. “I’m not sure…no, wasn’t he your lieutenant at Gotorget?” 

“Oh, yes,” he agreed, leaning back into his chair. “But I had many lieutenants at Gotorget; you do, you know, to manage a posting that large… never mind. But he drew himself particularly to my attention—there was this fool boy, you see, who was determined to duel me. I’m still not sure why it bothered him so, that I turned him down, but he went to the most ridiculous lengths… At one point rotten fish was involved.” His ladies would have found the youth truly ridiculous; it made him wish for a moment that they had seen him then. A more innocent time, withal. “This was before the siege had properly started, and he wasn’t under my command, so I couldn’t discipline him directly—” 

He went on, describing the fishpond, the rake, the statue of the naked woman, and Palli’s timely if unsubtle rescue. By the time he had finished, Iselle was smiling again, and the blessed light of laughter had entered into her eyes. 

“I’ll have to have a thank you prepared for our good March,” she said, her voice lilting with amusement. “After all, where would we all be now if you had suffered such a dreadful fate? And yet,” she continued, growing suddenly thoughtful, “You make me think of meeting Bergon, somehow.” 

Perhaps it was too much to be hoped for, that they’d avoid this. Yet her tone, though more somber, had not gone dark and cold. _Not yet._ “My lady?” 

“He’d spent most of his life in a civil war, one way or another. He knew to watch for signs of deception, of misdirection, to be prepared for treachery on all sides. Or so I’d thought, but talking to him I realized—it was _not_ all sides, because he’d never expected treachery from above. He knew all his life that he could rely on his parents to help him.” 

Cazaril considered this in contrast to a mad mother and a weak-willed half-brother who’d sold Iselle to his chancellor. “I would say,” he said carefully, “that the Fox trusts Bergon’s loyalty as much as he might anyone whose power is not fully reliant on his.” 

“I hope, Cazaril, for better family relations than either of us has had so far.” 

He remembered, for a moment, seeing the path of the curse in this new generation, children mad and terrible and faithless and betrayed. _Thank you, Goddess, for sparing us from that._ “Bergon trusted his parents,” he said, “and you trusted your servants. Your children will inherit both, and be surrounded by faith on all sides.” 

She looked at him for a moment. “I thank the Daughter every day for sending you to me, Cazaril.” 

His cheeks heated; he realized, surprised, that his eyes were a little damp. “Thank Her for sending you Bergon,” he advised. “I was only the mule, to carry him home.” 

“ _Caz_ aril!” Iselle said. “Hardly only that. But,” she added, “I do thank Her for Bergon, too. I do not have so small a heart I can only be grateful for one gift.” 

“Never that, my lady. Though,” he couldn’t help but point out, “you ought to give yourself some credit too, you know. Whatever you wrote to him, he seemed half-smitten before I ever began to persuade.” 

She looked at him and shook her head. “Very well, Caz, I will take some credit too. But you must accept your portion, and stop trying to—to sneak it off your plate to feed to crows, or whatever you like to do with it.” 

His lips twitched at her imperious tone. Betriz, he suspected, would have enjoyed this exchange. Would enjoy it, when he recounted it to her. “As you command.” 

**Inside**

“‘As though your convictions counted for something,’” Bergon repeated thoughtfully. “I was always treated more of an adult than you were, I suppose. But for _conviction_ —it wasn’t mine in particular that didn’t count, you understand. My father is suspicious of all principle. He taught me to look for men’s hidden motives. Eventually I couldn’t see anything else. I didn’t realize that men’s surface motives might be their only motive until…” He sighed. “Until a madman shared his food with me, for no reason at all but kindness.” 

Betriz blinked. “That sounds very lonely.” 

Bergon paused. “I suppose it must, to you. It wasn’t all bad, you know; I got along with many. I just knew that liking me would not be enough to compel action, if it went against their own interests.” 

“Hmm. In Valenda,” said Betriz, “we always knew why people did things. It was only when we came to court that people became—less obvious. Caz did the best he could, to show us how to read people. And I learned that most people couldn’t be relied upon to do what was right, or to help Iselle, or even to help Chalion, even the ones who didn’t mean you any harm. Even the ones who were supposed to protect her.” _Especially the ones who were supposed to protect her._ “But in all that murk, the ones who _could_ be trusted shone all the more brightly, and became more valuable than I had ever suspected. If you see truly, I think, you must see men’s virtues, as well as their flaws.” 

“I hope my father—” Bergon cut himself off. “And Caz shone brightest in your sight?” he continued instead, his tone slightly teasing. 

She took the hint. “Oh yes,” she said seriously. “In a court of stinging insects, he was a firefly of virtue.” 

Bergon laughed beside her. “Perhaps a spider,” he offered. “To catch the stinging insects, and bring them out of the way.” 

“Caz doesn’t _eat_ wicked courtiers. I know you’ve not been in Chalion long, my lord, but I can promise you we do not engage in cannibalism.” 

“No, no,” said Bergon. “ _Iselle_ eats them. Cazaril merely brings them to her. Or, ah,” she saw his chin move as he glanced upwards, then flinched back “—ow. Or to a slightly higher power.” 

“Are you all right?” 

“I’ll be fine,” he said, deliberately cheerful. “I just need to not move my head like that.” 

“Hm,” said Betriz doubtfully. “You’ll tell me if you get worse?” 

He promised most solemnly. “And you? How are you feeling?” 

The instant she thought about it, the pain came rushing back to her attention. _Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum…_ Still: “I think my ankle is feeling better,” she said. “My head is about the same, though.” 

He hummed thoughtfully. “How long do you think it’s been?” 

“Since I woke up? Perhaps twenty minutes. But I don’t know how long I was out.” 

He gazed in the direction of the caved-in entrance, and said nothing. 

The quiet was tempting. Betriz was tired: from the cold, from her wounds, from the memories of Orico’s court. dy Jironal’s court, in truth. The thought of slipping away from it all into sleep was disturbingly enticing. But apparently people had died from such things, and even if she had been perfectly well, she could not abandon Bergon. 

_At least when we’re talking I’m not paying attention to the pain._ “He was kind,” she said abruptly. She thought she saw Bergon start at her voice and look over. “And clever. And he gave us tools to help us cope with the world, instead of pretending that we didn’t need them, as though _that_ would help us. And he was loyal. He would have died for Iselle.” In fact, he’d tried to. _More than once._ She swallowed. “And he’s very handsome, besides.” And very nice at kissing, withal, now that he was trained out of only kissing her when he was half-dead. But that part was not for Bergon’s ears. 

“A worthy man, in truth.” She could hear Bergon’s smile. “And you a worthy lady. Iselle and I are blessed, to have two such servants. I wonder, sometimes,” he added, “what it must have been like to go from peaceful Valenda to Chalion’s court. Your strength, all of your strength, amazes.” 

“Caz told us that you hid your own identity, and would not let yourself be ransomed, you know,” said Betriz. “You hardly need to be so modest.” 

“That was a different kind of strength. Endurance, yes, and terror well enough. But I did not need to be clever, you understand. I only had to endure, and hope.” 

Hope, in Betriz’ experience, could be difficult enough all on its own. But she rather thought Bergon did not want to spend time reliving his life as a galley-slave. “What of your meeting with Caz?” she said instead. Bergon, she reflected, was not the only one who swallowed information about Caz with a will. “Your second one, I mean, when he came bearing our message to Ibra.” 

**Outside**

“You are the world’s most ridiculously self-effacing man,” Iselle told him exasperatedly. “I think if you were ever to slay some monster out of legend, I would only know if I caught you with the sword still bloody! Or if someone else claimed the credit, at which point you would cough apologetically and gently inform me that it could not have been whoever, because you yourself had done it. You could at least spare some thought for the embarrassment of all those poor people who underestimate you.” 

Cazaril coughed down a laugh. “But my lady,” he protested gently, “you would deprive me of my foremost weapon. If people cease to underestimate me, I shall have to rely only on my wits, meager as they are.” 

“Do not think,” Iselle informed him, “that I cannot tell that you are doing the same thing right now.” 

“Perhaps,” he allowed. “In truth, my lady, I think I have lost the habit of desiring fame.” Burned away on the galleys, discarded like so much dross. “Luxury, yes, and home and family and all good things. But the thought of fame…simply exhausts me, now.” 

Iselle was eyeing him tolerantly. “I hope it will not always be so. Or else I fear I will have a very tired chancellor.” 

“Mm,” Cazaril said noncommittally. “You did not underestimate me at Valenda. Neither did Betriz.” 

“Do you think so?” Iselle raised her eyebrows. 

“Not  in the way you meant, not my wits. _I,_ ” he grimaced, “underestimated _you._ ” 

“What, truly? It never seemed so to me. To either of us.” 

“No, yet—” he gestured with his hand, trying to find the shape of it. “I treated you as young ladies, delicate things, when I ought to have treated you as officers. Or as young ladies _and_ officers.” He remembered again Palli’s so-effective plea, _don’t send me blindfolded into battle._ “I ought to have told you sooner, about the curse.” 

“Oh.” Iselle fell silent for a moment. “Yes,” she said, finally. “You should have. But Caz—you won’t make the mistake again.” 

It seemed half prediction, half order. “There is no future in trying to protect a royina from unpleasant news,” agreed Cazaril. “Though—ha. When your children start to become grown, I suppose, I must watch myself for that same error.” 

“Good gods.” Iselle blinked. “I have thought—of children, of course, yes.” Her hand, unconsciously Cazaril suspected, caressed her belly. “But somehow not—Caz, I’m going to have to mother a sixteen-year-old!” 

She looked so genuinely alarmed, Cazaril had to bite back a smile. “You’ll have considerable practice, by then,” he suggested soothingly. “And perhaps you can ask your own—” not parents, no “—guardians and minders, for advice. The Provincara did not do so bad a job as all that, I thought.” 

“No,” she said uncertainly, and then more firmly: “No. And besides,” she added, with a gleam of satisfaction in her eye, “my chancellor is quite experienced at managing young men and women, you know. I am sure he will provide much useful advice.” 

“Oh?” said Cazaril, eyebrows raised. “Did you tell him that, when you recruited him to his current position?” 

Iselle waved a dismissive hand, the sunlight glinting off her red-blonde hair. “Not in so many words. But he’s quite intelligent; I’m sure he worked it out.” 

Cazaril conceded the point with a nod; Iselle’s lips twisted up in pleased satisfaction. 

“I am sure Bergon will be an excellent father, too,” he offered, more serious now. “By all accounts he was close to his mother. And as you have said, whatever his faults the Fox loves Bergon dearly.” 

“Bergon—” her chin came up. “Yes. He will be an excellent father. And an excellent husband, and a long-lived one too, because he will come out of that cave in perfect health, and Betriz with him. Am I wrong, Cazaril?” 

He smiled involuntarily, feeling for a moment a hint of that divine clarity he’d felt when the Daughter had lifted him up out of his body. “No, my lady,” he said. “I am quite sure that you are right. They are probably gossiping about us right now, to pass the time.” 

**Inside**

“Oh—” said Bergon, and laughed a little. “Seeing Caz again. It was a shock, you understand. At first I was convinced I’d gone mad, or that I was mistaken—must be mistaken…I’d thought he was dead. No one had been able to find him, we thought he must have died at sea—But then he started to talk—” He shook his head. “He’d looked, ah, very different on the galleys. But his voice was the same, and his courtesy. Looking back,” he sounded sheepish now, “I think I must have frightened him a little. I was staring at him, trying to recognize him, and then I told him to take off his shirt, and when I saw I—well, I started dancing about, a little. In joy, you understand. He looked at me like I was a madman—” 

“Oh.” Betriz pictured the scene. Then she burst into giggles, unable to help herself. 

Bergon laughed too, low and self-deprecating. “Well, you see. But then he knew me, and called me ‘Danni’—that was the name I’d used on the galleys. A nickname my mother used to call me. And then I wasn’t the only one who was amazed, when it all came out. You should have seen my father’s face.” 

“It must certainly have strengthened Caz’ position as ambassador,” Betriz agreed. “I can’t imagine your father was delighted.” 

“Mm, no,” agreed Bergon judiciously. “But I think it helped, in the long run. It gave him more respect for Iselle, you see, because Cazaril served her.” 

“Hmm.” Betriz considered this. “And you?” 

“Me? Oh, Iselle, you mean?” At Betriz’ hum of assent, he continued. “Well—I was so happy to see him, I’d have been happy if he’d tried to feed me burnt cod. But I knew I could trust him, when he told me all about Iselle.” If the light had been better, Betriz suspected, she’d be able to see a fond smile on Bergon’s face right now. “And I had Iselle’s letter, of course; that helped. She wrote…very clearly and eloquently. And carefully, but with such strength of conviction—but Caz, yes. And I was very happy that he’d found a home. I don’t think I made his task particularly difficult. And when I met Iselle… I knew everything he’d told me had been right. Even if I wasn’t able to save Iselle like some prince in a story, after all.” 

“If not you directly,” Betriz felt obliged to point out, “surely your betrothal gift.” 

He laughed. “Oh, but Caz, or seeing him, was Iselle’s betrothal gift to me; so if I gave her Caz’ gift, surely it came out even, in the end.” 

“I beg your pardon, your majesty,” said Betriz, “but Caz was Iselle’s gift to me, at your mutual coronation; I think there must be some confusion.” 

“But as Chancellor he belongs to the royacy of Chalion!” said Bergon. “Hmm. I suppose we’ll have to share.” 

Betriz giggled again at this ridiculous turn of the conversation. “I’m sorry, but you make me imagine him in some sort of wheelbarrow, being carted back and forth between you and Iselle and me.” 

“I can just imagine the look on his face!” said Bergon. “Alarmed at first, and then you know that look he gets, when someone’s making some public fuss over him—” 

“All dismayed and embarrassed. Yes.” Betriz sighed in memory. “My poor Cazaril.” 

“Oh, but he is rich.” Bergon had turned serious now. “As are we all, I think: to have such friends and loved ones. Surely we are blessed.” 

“Yes,” said Betriz thoughtfully. “Yes, you’re right.” 

They fell into another companionable silence, but before Betriz could think for something else to say, Bergon was speaking again. “It’s hard to keep thinking of things to say, when all one wants is sleep.” He sounded rueful. She wondered if he was imagining himself embracing Iselle, the way her own thoughts kept drawing her back to Caz. “It’s no reflection on the company, I swear. I don’t suppose you know any short poems? Or songs? I’m afraid the ones I know best are in Darthacan.” 

From his Darthacan mother, Betriz realized, and tried not to think about her own mother, dead many years ago now. But she was not about to try translating from Darthacan on an injured head, exhausted and cold, even if it was simpler than Roknari. “Perhaps another time,” she suggested. “Hmm—do you know The Duck and The Gooseberry?” 

He shook his head; she began to hum, quietly, ignoring the pain in her head. After about a verse, he interrupted with an exclamation: “Ah! No, I do know that one, but with a different title. In Darthacan, it’s called The Swan and the Crab-Apple—the next bit goes—” he hummed the chorus, then the verse-music again. 

“That’s right exactly,” said Betriz. “I wonder if they call it the same thing in Ibra?” 

“You can ask one of my men, once we get out of here,” Bergon said encouragingly. 

She smiled. “It’s odd to think about singing these to my children. I mean, exciting, but—” 

“I know what you mean,” said Bergon. “It makes you nervous, doesn’t it? I think about raising children with Iselle. And it is exciting, but—” in the dim light, she thought saw him shake his head. “There’s so much that could go wrong. I don’t know how to be a father, yet. I think…there are a few things I’d do differently, than my own.” 

She saw the confession for what it was, matched it. “My mother died when I was four. There was Iselle’s mother, but for a long time she was…not well. And there was the Provincara, and the various ladies, but—” she sighed. “It wasn’t the same. I’ve never really seen someone, be a mother like that.” She still wondered, fleetingly, what her mother would have thought of Cazaril. Her father approved, of course, and he’d said her mother would have too. She could hardly doubt it—and yet—it have been nice to _know…_

“My own mother was excellent,” Bergon offered. “I could tell you about her, if you like…?” 

It hit her like the sound of the falling stones had, hitting the floor. She swallowed. “That would be wonderful. Thank you. But—later, I think? If you would?” If she talked about this now, she was going to start crying. And that was the absolute last thing the situation needed. 

“Of course.” Without looking over, Bergon reached out and clasped her shoulder for a moment before returning his hand to his lap. “Whenever you’re ready.” 

“Thank you.” Betriz kept her voice steady. “In the meantime, do you know The Spider in the Corner?” 

**Outside**

Their conversation had died down, as conversations did, but Iselle was no longer wearing that dead look of extreme pain; Cazaril counted himself satisfied. Instead, he suspected, her thoughts had turned to what they would do after they got Betriz and Bergon out. Return them to the castle, probably, though he supposed the doctors would have final say on that— 

There was someone coming up the path. 

It was not yet the hour he’d been told it would take. Yet the man had no frown or grim bearing to suggest bad news; indeed, his expression seemed downright jolly. _Betriz. Bergon. Let them be all right…_ Iselle had seen the man too; they watched together as he made his approach, going up to one of the guards and being walked close to the royina’s seat. 

“Your majesty, Chancellor,” he said, bobbing a nervous bow. 

“Ser…?” said Iselle. 

“Oh, I’m just Arco, your majesty, I’m no ser.” 

“Thank you, good Arco. You bring news for me?” 

“Excellent news, your majesty. We’re not through yet, that’ll still take some time, but we’ve dug a lot, and they’re all right.” 

The news washed over Cazaril like sinking into a warm bath after months of cold river-water. By the looks of it, Iselle was feeling much the same. “How can you tell?” he managed. “If you’re not through yet, I mean.” 

The man turned in his direction, bobbing his head briefly in acknowledgement. “Well, your lordship, we weren’t sure at first, but then we heard them singing.” 

**Inside**

They were singing the song Iselle and Betriz had made up out of the rude Roknari Caz had taught them, now supplemented with some of the Roknari Bergon himself had picked up in his time on the galleys, when Bergon broke off mid-word. “Is it just me, or is it getting lighter in here?” 

Betriz looked around. It was hard to say, but she thought he was right; she could almost see Bergon’s features, now, and was sure she’d be able to tell if he smiled. 

“Yes, I think so,” she said, wincing as her pain drew her attention again. “Should we go up to the entrance?” 

“No,” said Bergon. “We’re both injured—you shouldn’t move on your ankle if you can avoid it, I think. And we don’t want to be near there, if they’re moving the stones. Perhaps we should call out?” 

Betriz thought dubiously of her own aching head; Bergon’s had to be hurting even worse. “I don’t think so,” she said doubtfully. “Not until it’s necessary. I don’t know about you, but my head hurts.” 

She could see Bergon’s grimace in reply—it really was getting lighter in here. “Good point. I suppose we don’t know how long it will take them. Let’s go back to singing, then?” 

“That seems better,” she agreed. “Only—um—perhaps we should switch to a different song.” _Just in case they can hear us._ Even if no one around was likely to speak much Roknari… 

Bergon shot her an amused glance, but didn’t argue. “Fifteen Cabbage-Heads again? That one goes on for a while.” And was totally innocuous, a point she found herself appreciating. 

She assented, and they began, watching as the cavern slowly continued to brighten. 

**Outside**

The chairs had been returned to the clearing outside the cavern entrance, and Cazaril watched, and watched Iselle watch, the labourers at work, slowly moving stones from in front of the cavern to one of several piles located around the clearing. They didn’t need to worry about royal pressure anymore, Cazaril rather thought; by now the men were humming as they worked, and what glances they stole at Iselle and himself seemed pleased rather than anxious. Well, they had done good work; he’d have to see about reminding Iselle to reward them, if she forgot. 

Iselle herself was still doing better, though he could see the tension she’d managed to conceal from all but himself; and two others, if they could but see it. He suspected from occasional jerks of motion that her hands, clasped tightly together, wanted to twist together as her mother’s had once done, shredding a rose into pieces. _We inherit all kinds of things from our parents._ Iselle had certainly acquired her mother’s wit, and her soul of unbending steel; and something more terrible by far, dispersed now by the gods like so much sand thrown into the wind. _Thank you, Daughter, for your most holy gift._ And for Bergon. And for Betriz, for in giving him to Iselle had She not also brought him to Betriz? Worry for his wife lurked still, but he could not quite bring himself to be terrified for either Betriz or Bergon; Iselle’s earlier words had struck a chord in him, and he was somehow confident that whatever had happened to them, they would eventually be fine. _Although eventually can take quite a while. As I should now._

He even thought that he could sometimes hear a snatch of some tune drift out of the cave on a slight breeze, though as no one near him seemed to be reacting—and as he was no longer god-touched, to sense what others could not—he suspected it was his imagination. Even so he found himself humming along under his breath to the silly children’s tunes. 

It would still be some time before the entrance was fully cleared; perhaps thirty minutes, he estimated, based on the rate of progress so far. He sat with Iselle, and they waited and waited and watched. 

**Inside**

By now they had stopped singing, and it would have been impossible to deny that more sun was making it into the cave; light’s richness had even begun to make more vivid the colours around her—what few there were, Betriz thought. _They must be almost done by now, surely._

It felt like a lot longer, but by Betriz’ best estimate it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before the last great stone blocking the top of the entrance was tugged away, and sunlight spilled through, almost blinding her. 

“Your majesty! Your ladyship! Are you all right?” came a voice calling through the gap, as her eyes adjusted to the sudden light. Local, Betriz judged by the accent, and not any of the guards they had brought with them. “We heard you singing!” 

_Just as long as it wasn’t the Roknari._ Bergon was calling back: “We’re injured, good man, but we are well, thank you. Lady Betriz has twisted her ankle; she’ll need help walking out.” He paused and cast a glance at Betriz. “How is my wife? And the Chancellor?” 

“They’re well, your majesty. Worried about you, no doubt, but fine.” The voice had taken on a mollifying, grandparental air in response to this example of domestic worry from on high. Betriz wondered how many children, or grandchildren, he had, picturing him somewhat vaguely dangling a child on his knee. _I’ll have to send them pasties._

Bergon had grinned in response to the news, relief transforming his face and washing away the hints of pain that she realized now had been shadowing it. “What’s your name, man?” 

“Tezin, your majesty.” 

“Thank you very much for your service, Tezin. Do you know how much longer until we can leave?” 

The voice hummed thoughtfully. “About twenty minutes, we think, your majesty. Mind you stay well back, now!” 

Betriz exchanged amused glances with Bergon; she suspected she was not the only one to imagine the man calling to them as a grandfather. “We will, good Tezin,” she called in reply, ignoring the pain this caused in her head. “Would you convey our wellbeing to Her Majesty and my husband?” 

“Of course, Lady Betriz, it would be my pleasure. Er, I’m going to go tell them then, and let the lads get on with it, if that’s all right?” 

“If you please, Tezin,” agreed Bergon. “My thanks again for your good service.” 

“Thank you, your majesty!” came in reply. Then there were sounds of shifting rock, such as might be caused, Betriz suspected, by someone climbing down a large pile of them, and silence. 

In the end it was only fifteen minutes before the entrance to the cave was clear enough to pass through, though more work would have to be done to completely remove the fallen rocks. She left the cave, her now rather ragged shawl wrapped again around her shoulders, leaning faintly on Bergon as he helped her make the walk. 

Outside it was much brighter, and they paused for a moment to blink as their eyes adjusted. Then she could see again: Iselle, looking faint with relief and staring straight at Bergon, and next to her— 

_Caz._

She hobbled to him as quickly as she could, ignoring the twinging in her ankle, and he moved forward quickly to catch her. His arms surrounded her, warm with sun and life against the cold quiet darkness of the cave, and she swallowed a sob. She was coming undone, she realized, now that the emergency was over. It was a familiar enough pattern, after all that she’d experienced. She clung tighter to him, and buried her head in his chest. 

He held her tight. “I was,” he whispered, looking down at her, “very worried about you.” She felt his breath brush against the top of her head. 

“I was worried about you, too,” she admitted, turning her head a little so the words wouldn’t be buried against his chest. “I thought you’d made it out with Iselle in time, but—” 

His arms tightened around her briefly, a little squeeze of a hug. “I was well. We were both well. Only worried about you.” 

“I’m all right, I think. Bergon was a little out of it at first—I had to wake him up—but he’s been getting better. He remembered all the words to—ah, the songs I taught him.” 

Caz went still. “He was hit? On the head?” 

One of Caz’ friends had been injured so, Betriz recalled. The man who had been the groom of Orico’s menagerie, Umegat. 

“I really think he’s fine, Caz,” she reassured him. “He was a little hazy at first, yes, but he’s been able to focus, and I could wake him without much trouble. And he wasn’t injured, other than that.” 

“Mmm,” said Caz doubtfully, though she felt him relax beneath her. “You should both see the physicians I summoned, I think, and tell your stories to them.” 

This was sensible, Betriz supposed, if not particularly desirable at the moment. She sighed. “Very well. But one thing first.” 

“Mmm?” 

She lifted her head up and tilted it beguilingly. His smile broadened as he realized what she wanted, and he tilted his head down until their lips met in a kiss. 

It didn’t last long enough, in Betriz’ opinion; they would have to resume it later. But Cazaril was looking at her with a deep and flourishing joy, and she was certain that her expression matched his. 

“Come on,” he said finally. “You’re injured. Let me take you to the doctor.” He let go of her with his right arm and offered it—he must have noticed which one of her ankles was hurt, Betriz realized. 

She turned and stepped sideways, taking his proffered arm with her left hand. Iselle and Bergon were having their own reunion, she saw in amusement, and no one else had yet seen fit to interrupt them. 

She nodded towards them. “We should probably pick up Bergon, on the way to the doctors. If only to spare the poor guards.” 

Caz puffed out an amused breath. “Not a bad idea,” he agreed. “Come on, then. Let’s go.” 

She was arm in arm with the man she loved best, in a sunny clearing under a wide blue sky. Betriz couldn’t help but smile. “Let’s go,” she agreed, and they started making their way towards their friends. 

**Author's Note:**

> And they both heal completely and everyone lives happily ever after, the end. :)


End file.
